


blissclouds

by Luthor



Category: Far Cry 5
Genre: AU, Addiction, Drug Use, F/F, Withdrawal
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-07
Updated: 2018-05-07
Packaged: 2019-05-03 15:48:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,216
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14572332
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Luthor/pseuds/Luthor
Summary: she pulls the bliss right out of you, and ithurts





	blissclouds

“I knew you’d make the right choice.”

She speaks like the wind in a blisscloud; softly, softly winding around your thoughts like spidersilk, warm, sweet-smelling, indistinguishable from the heat of the sun against your skin. She draws you in blindly and you fumble for a purchase, for contact, for the softness and warmth of her that you know she’ll be, if you could only _reach_ her.

Choice?

You’ve had no choice in this. If you had, none of this would have happened, your friends wouldn’t have been taken, tortured, there’d be no _blood_ on your hands—

A breeze carries her laughter towards you like a life preserver in a choppy sea; she plucks you out of every bad thought and you forget your anger. Gently, like a hand taking yours, she guides you further into the bliss.

You want to speak – you want to ask where she is, why she is hiding, why she won’t come to you. You need to see her, doesn’t she understand?

“Yes,” she says, a disembodied voice that parts the blissclouds further, revealing a path. “I understand. I’m here, I’m right here. You don’t need to worry anymore, I’ve been with you this entire time. Haven’t you felt it?”

 _Yes, yes, I’ve felt it_.

“Just a little closer, now, I promise.”

_I’ve felt it like the grass beneath my feet, the sunshine on my face…_

“You’re doing _so well_ , Deputy. You’re almost there.”

You move with one foot in front of the other like a new born fawn on ice. The ground is a ship beneath you, and reality is the sea beneath that – one great wave rocking you from pillar to post, and _she_ is the only thing that keeps you from falling in.

You drop your weapons and fill your hands with tall grass, dogwood, silverberries… the delicate tickle of life against your palms, weaving through your fingertips. You take in each sensation like you’ve never appreciated them before, and never will again. The wind is a current and you let it draw you further in, where the air smells sweet with blossom and hot summer sun. It pulls and pushes at your back and at your hair, makes you laugh and off-balance and stumble, but never trip.

In the distance, you hear her sweetly singing.

She urges you on, “closer, closer, Deputy,” and you push blindly through thick green mist, to the shallow river on the opposite side. There, she’s waiting, unmoving and solid against the ground that rocks and shifts and splinters with unreality around you. She is the only stable point of focus, and so you focus on her, and it’s easy.

“This way, now,” she says, and reaches out both hands.

The blisscloud shifts around you, reluctant.

It weaves around your legs like a cat looking for attention; you could leave, but why would you want to?

“Deputy,” her voice is no longer soft and distant, “this way, you have to come out now.”

You don’t understand.

Her sense of urgency draws panic like a cold wind. You stumble backwards, back into the bliss, where it’s warm and secure, and she _screeches_ your name. You don’t want to come out, you don’t want to let go of this feeling, of this weightlessness, this consequence-free bubble in time where you don’t have to think about any of the terrible things that could be happening around you.

You’re comfortable here. You’d be happier if she joined you.

“No—Deputy, _no!_ It’s me you want, isn’t it? It’s me, not the bliss, and I’m over here. You just have to walk towards me – you just have to come with me, just this once, I promise. Don’t you trust me?”

You can’t think. The thoughts in your head are like syrup, indistinguishable from each other, sweet and distracting. They make your brain ache like the come-down of a sugar rush. You take a step forward, just far enough to clear your thoughts, to restore a semblance of cold, hard control.

“Deputy,” she says, like _yes_ , like _well done_ , like _keep going_.

She’s smiling and pleased and you like that, you want to please her further, you want to keep that smile on her face.

You take another step forward, and the fog clings like water thick with mud, like you’re knee-deep in wet sand and sinking further with every movement. She holds her hands out to help you, but she’s so far away. You reach out to her, but she gets no closer. She is fixed in place and you push, push towards her. You make it happen because it’s what she wants, it’s what you want.

“This way,” she says, she guides you in, like the light at the end of a pier.

The world turns dark around you, the bliss-green fades, it’s cold and your feet are wet and the water wants to pull you back in. You fight it. You don’t want to fight it, but you do, because it’s what she wants. At the river’s shallow bank, you stumble through mud and riverweeds, and she takes your hands and pulls you along.

 _You’re real_ , you want to say. _This is you, isn’t it?_

“It’s me,” she reassures, soothes, settles, “it’s me, it’s me.”

You are shaking so hard you cannot walk, but she helps you. You lean on her and she pulls you to dry land, she pulls the bliss right out of you, and it _hurts_. God, it hurts, but she does it anyway. You don’t remember the world being so cold, your body being so heavy, but there you are on a dirt roadside with her, and you’re shaking so hard that when she does release you, you almost fall over.

“Deputy,” she says, and her voice is _real_ , and she is _real_ , and standing right before you, and you remember who she is.

You raise your gun, instinctive, but in your hands are only grass and flower petals, sweat-slick against your palms.

She holds her hands up, anyway, shows you that she is without a weapon, shows you that she is defenceless. You know neither are true. Now that you see her, she is paler than you remember, she is dark circles and limp hair and the same filthy dress that she’d worn back at the church, that first day you saw her.

She wraps her arms around herself as if to hold her aching body together.

(She’s as sober as she’s been in years, and she is struggling.)

_What do you want with me? Why have you brought me here?_

“I need your help,” she tells you, and her voice catches, scratches through her throat like sandpaper, like cactus barbs, like a plough through ravaged fields. She has to struggle before she’s better; she has to be dirty before she’s clean. “You’re the only person who can stop this, you’re the only one who’s gotten close.”

“What do you need me to do?” you ask her, and she takes your hands in hers.

She is solid and warm and her hands shake the way that yours shake. She closes your fist around a key.

“Stop him,” she says, and it’s _please_ , and _help_ , and _kill_.

You nod your head.

You’ll do it because it’s what she wants. It’s what you want.


End file.
